“That’s not the same thing,” he said.
“What’s the difference? She doesn’t change the play, I suppose?”
“No. But naturally on the first night she wants all her friends to come up to the scratch, muster round—don’t you know?—and give her a hand.”
“And she thinks your hand, being enormous, would be valuable? But we can’t throw over Brayley House.”
Lord Holme’s square jaw began to work, a sure sign of acute irritation.
“If there’s a dull, dreary house in London, it’s Brayley House,” he grumbled. “The cookin’s awful—poison—and the wine’s worse. Why, last time Laycock was there they actually gave him—”
“Poor dear Mr. Laycock! Did they really? But what can we do? I’m sure I don’t want to be poisoned either. I love life.”
She was looking brilliant. Lord Holme began to straddle his legs.
“And there’s the box!” he said. “A box next the stage that holds six in a row can’t stand empty on a first night, eh? It’d throw a damper on the whole house.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. What box?”